


i want to tell you how much i love you.

by marcoftmario



Series: You can't hide love forever. [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 22:23:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4582350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marcoftmario/pseuds/marcoftmario
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco getting tattooed "Mario". Basically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i want to tell you how much i love you.

The pain woke him up. It felt like a lot of punctures in his arm at the same time, but it wasn’t that strong, it was more like ants biting his arm. It was never a good idea to go to a party in the first free day he had, specially knowing how he was, and it wasn’t the first time he woke up feeling sore and wondered what he had been doing last night. However, this pain was a different pain. It wasn’t like someone had punched him or something had dropped on his arm, and it was on his _arm_ so there weren’t a lot of possibilities.

It took him an infinite second to open his eyes and four tenths of second more to realize what he was seeing, what he caught first with the corner of his eye and _then_ had a good look at it, and it wasn’t something that could be unnoticed for a long time. When he (finally) glanced down there and found the blood and _something_ below it, he was standing on his feet in a lot less than a second.

_This shit is going to infect what was that thing I used for the tattoo when it hurt and bled… oh come on I happen to get tattooed just last night. Oh, yes! That one, that ointment, over the pedestal table, I think it’s that one. Yes, for piercings and tattoos it says. Good! Oh it hurts it hurts it HURTS. Fucking hell, why didn’t anyone stop me when I was about to do it? Seriously, I had forgotten that this hurt like this. Uuuh. Go on, again. Take a deep breath and pass softly the ointment by the tatt… ah!_

The blonde forced the muscles of the face until it hurt, something he used to do to forget the other pain. The only problem was that the feeling of burning and the warmth that came from his arm and went up to his shoulder at the same time he had his left hand almost burning, was a lot stronger. He came to think, while he felt like a child when they get hurt and are bound to put alcohol in it even if it hurts more, that if the thing kept going like that he would _cut his hand off_. That thought that was a lot like Marco and that obviously didn’t last much when he pictured how cutting his hand off would _really_ be.

He didn’t question for a second the reason of the tattoo, even if it seemed a little too stupid for him, without taking in count that he had been a little, em, _too_ drunk and laughed every two seconds. Tattooing his own name, anyways, wasn’t worse than tattooing someone else’s name, wasn’t it? Yeah, those people were really stupid.

_Wait, that’s not a C. What the fuuuuuuuuuck. No. Don’t tell me I was so stupid to get Mario’s name in my fucking arm. No, please, dear God, don’t do this to me... what do I do now? Oh, I hate you, Mario Götze._

He had forgotten about the pain, didn’t he? But now he had a bigger problem to deal with. Actually, the problem was projected in wanting to vomit and to have a time machine so he could tell himself not to go celebrate with his friends of the team that night, because they would leave him alone and that would happen eventually.

He made the healing (yeah, he remembered _something_ about tattoos, luckily) and put the headband on the tattoo, so he couldn’t see it and feel regret for the rest of his life. Well, his life or his day.

Suddenly, the SmartPhone started ringing with the ringtone he had for Whatsapp, several times in succession. Oh. The people from the group were awake. Great.

Just to try something, before seeing what kind of stupidities about last night his teammates would have written, for pure curiosity, he grabbed a pen and wrote something with his left hand, his skilled hand. As soon as he wrote the first letter, _M_ , he felt the pain. _Well, I don’t write that much in paper after all._

His teammates’ whatsapp group, evidently, were already awake (which was a good thing because it was around two o’clock and at least they were _alive_ ) and it was the first thing he checked, without being able to repress a smile.

**Bro  
** _“hey, bros. How are you in this beautiful morning?” 1:46 pm._

Ah, Pierre and his constant optimism for those little things. He was insupportable sometimes.

**Erik**  
_“Like shit” 1:49 pm._  
**Captain Hummels**  
_“Is it “morning” or you are saying “morning” because you just woke up?” 1:50 pm._  
**bro**  
_“It’s “morning” when I wake up” 1:50 pm._  
**Asian (Shinji)**  
_“Can anyone explain why my head hurts so much?” 1:51 pm._  
**Roman (W)**  
“Because you drank too much, cute and innocent Shinji” 1:52 pm.  
**Idiot (Marcel)**  
_“I hate you all, you know” 1:52 pm._  
**Evil twin (Sven)**  
_“Can you shut up right now? I’ll silence you, I mean it this time” 1:53 pm._  
**Lukasz:**  
_“Does anyone remember anything, or can say something useful? Because otherwise I’ll go back to sleep. Thanks” 1:54 pm._

Marco decided to tell them right there, in that mess (but the group was always a mess. With all those people, there wasn’t an option), because if he didn’t he would have to explain it at the other day, in person. And he didn’t want that at all. Besides, training was, generally, open to the press so if he showed them the tattoo in there, the risk of being discovered would be bigger. The risk of Mario discovering would be bigger.

He had an awful chill when he thought about it. No, Mario wouldn’t know. And he had to do a research about how to delete tattoos, or make something to them or… find a way, quick.

_“Eh, hi. I just got tattooed” 1:55 pm._

**Captain Hummels**  
_“What did you get?” 1:55 pm._  
**Bro**  
“ _I knew it wasn’t a dream and we actually were at a tattoo shop at some point!” 1:56 pm._

Those two contestations were followed by every kind of _emoji_ existent and irrelevant exclamations or questions about _the place in the body_ of the tattoo. Marco could imagine them talking all together, laughing, shaking the head, rolling the eyes, smiling at him or worrying, with an insupportable frown. He had luck by not having to see them.

_“well… I tattooed a name” 1:56 pm.  
“And now Im regretting it” 1:56 pm._

**Captain Hummels**  
_“Mario????” 1:56 pm._  
**Roman (W)**  
_“Mario” 1:56 pm._  
**Asiático (Shinji)**  
_“Mario!” 1:56 pm._  
**Lukasz**  
_“It has to be Mario” 1:56 pm._  
**Erik**  
_“Poor Mario, and poor you!” 1:56 pm._  
**Evil twin (Sven)**  
_“I knew  you were going to do that at some point” 1:57 pm._  
“Did Mario tattoo “Marco” or something like that? That would be cute” 1:57 pm.  
**Bro**  
_“…do I have to say “Mario” too?” 1:58 pm._

Oh, he hated them. He wasn’t that obvious about Mario. No. It was just that they saw each other every day and they knew him and they realized. Marco wasn’t that obvious about being _so_ desperately in love with Mario, because not even Mario realized. He took a deep breath (again, which made him remember the pain he still felt on his arm) and decided not to answer them for the moment (except for Mats, who had sent a message to his private chat, obviously asking all the details about the tattoo and what he was going to do about it, worried about him and his irresponsibility), while he checked the other group, the important one. The group he had with _his_ Sunny and André.

They were just talking about music. At a point of the conversation they had had that morning earlier, Mario had sent a _selfie_ with so many _emojis_ that what he was trying to say (if he was trying to say _something_ ) didn’t make sense at all. He always did the same thing, that stupid (he ignored the fact that he spent minutes looking at the screen of the phone with the photo, Mario’s eyes that seemed to look directly at him as so many times before in other situations and _that_ smile half-forced that he never used with Marco but he knew it was usual to see it on his face, because for everyone that was his normal smile. They didn’t know what they were missing if they never made him smile sincerely). Suddenly, he concentrated on the tattoo again, and decided that the best thing to do would be do some research on the always useful Internet.

And so he did. Ten minutes of exhaustive research, options discarded and, later, panic, because none of the things that appeared on his screen were _quick._ Everywhere it said that the tattoo had to be healed, disinfected and that you could be capable to touch it normally, without pain. And it hurt him without needing to touch it (besides, and he wasn’t going to admit that out loud, they all seemed to hurt _so_ much, more than tattooing something over it).

He exhaled, letting out the air that he didn’t know had been holding. He knew what he had to do, the last option, the one that was also risky because the guy could say something, could tell the people that Marco Reus was so in love with Mario Götze that he decided to get his name tattooed, that he knew it because he had a tattoo on his arm. Mario would know… His parents. His parents would know. But he had to try it; it was the last option he had. He couldn’t lose more.

He reached his wallet, seek for it, and found it. Obviously. That was the only thing he could recall of the night before: him, a sweaty and shaky hand, grabbing the card the other one tended (while saying “if you need something, or you want to get tattooed again”) and saving it. He called as soon as he could and, after a couple of seconds waiting, the guy answered.

“Hello?” he said. He had a weird voice, the same Marco should be having (or he assumed that) at that moment, but his voice was like in a bad mood. And that was when he put two and two and realized that the other one hadn’t possibly slept, because he had gone more and less at five in the morning (or so it said on his whatsapp conversations) and, well, he was there, saluting him.

“Hi! Em, I got a tattoo last night…”

“Are you the guy who got tattooed the name of the player of the national team? I asked you if you were going to regret it, genius” he evidently couldn’t recognize him. Despite his words, there was something weird on what he said, it was like if he even felt compassion for him. _Well, if that helps to get my tattoo removed sooner, better._

“You have no idea how drunk I was” he said, not trying to exhibit it, but to apologize. Apologize for having his best friend’s name tattooed. _Best friend_. “And, yeah, of course I regret it now. The thing is that… em, I need it to be quick. Which is the less amount of time that it takes you to correct this tattoo by putting another one over it?

“It depends. You had another tattoo on your arm, didn’t you? Another one” the man asked, slightly more interested.

“Yes” the blonde answered as quickly as he could. He wanted the other man to say that he could, that he only needed to go at that exact moment and… no more problems. He knew that wouldn’t happen.

“How long did it take it to be cured completely?”

“Two weeks, to be exactly, eh, _good_ ” he provided the data. Without realizing it, he was biting his fingernail of how nervous he was.

“And, how much do you want to change it? You’re gonna cover it completely or..?” le left the phrase on the air because he didn’t need to mention all the options the other had.

“No, I wanted to see if I could… well, change the _I_ for a _C_ , and change the font or something like that. Marco is my name and…well. But I want it to be quickly, that’s the only thing I’m asking.”

The seconds of silence before the other man spoke again were frustrating. It looked like he was doing it in purpose. “Well, yes. I would tell you to come in a week and a couple of days, between a week and a week and a half, and we’ll see what I can do, all right?”

“Yes, eh, thank you so much!”

It was the best he was going to get and he knew it. The websites said a lot more time than that, even a month. And with the weather, so hot, that it had been doing these days, no one was going to believe for a month that he used the long sleeve because he was cold. Maybe a week could do, even two, but a month? Someone, the press, was going to say something. They always ended up saying something. He held that opportunity with everything he could, because if the tattooist recognized him there would be a problem if he said something.

 

He didn’t show the tattoo to anybody in that first week. With the time the pain, logically, was decreasing, for the precautions that he used not to take but that in that moment he did because if he wanted the tattooist to see it and fix it with hurry, he also needed to make an effort to be cured quickly, and that was the reason why he changed the bandage pretty often and put almost double of the ointment on his arm. Under the long sleeve he was wearing, that hurt but _not so much_ , in trainings he had constantly that bandage that at least made it not to bother him. Plus, the others didn’t speak about that stupid thing (or what he, at that point, considered a stupid thing despite it was a stupid thing he had to fix and cover) _all_ the time. His friends understood after a little bit, anger and even a discussion that the blonde didn’t want to know about their curiosity and their doubts about his tattoo. He even managed to make them not to mention it. And he was only a couple of days left. He didn’t want to go on his own, but he also didn’t want to go with the ones who weren’t taking that seriously or couldn’t tolerate seeing someone getting tattooed (he understood that. He already had the experience of Mario being too chicken to stay while he got tattooed the first time. He “didn’t like points”, was his excuse).

Mats had been very interested on what happened with the tattoo, what he would do, and why he had tattooed it, the first days. He was paying him a lot of attention and Marco knew why but he preferred him out of that captain attitude that on the pitch he appreciated so much. He was like that until Marco told him, and the other changed so much the attitude that it seemed that the tattoos didn’t exist anymore. He also looked like he was five years old every time he spoke but with him that always happened. More than anything, he was thankful, because even if it was him telling Marco stupidities about Benni or a moment of silence with a beer on their hands everything was distended. Mats had a lot of presence when he walked into a room and he knew how to handle a conversation where he wanted and make it comfortable or terribly avoidable, according what he thought.

He spoke a lot with Mario. All the photos and _selfies_ he had sent him in the course of the week had been specially taken so the left arm couldn’t see, and Mario seemed not to realize it. The phone calls and by Skype became weirder (but not shorter) from the Bayern footballer since he had mentioned like he didn’t mean it (but meaning it) how Marco always smiled with the right side of the face on the pictures, and he specifically remarked how cute and sweet he thought that was, without knowing what he was saying, without knowing what was going to cause on Marco. Mario did so many things without knowing, so much damage without knowing… and Marco didn’t know to what point it was Mario’s responsibility for not realizing, not wanting to realize of the evident, or his for not being clear and telling it all. All that he was feeling.

_I love you. I have been in love with you since you smiled at me for the first time that morning of training, in the first international break you were at and you didn’t introduce yourself because you didn’t need to, because I knew who you were, how would I not know you. But I, later, had to ask another guy your name because I did knew who you were and for what team you were playing, it was just that I couldn’t remember, it did not come to my mind your name because my thoughts were in other things, absorbing every detail of your face, preserving every time you smiled at me as something sacred, presaging both everything and nothing. I didn’t know I was going to love. I didn’t know it was going to be so hard to live loving you and being away from you. I couldn’t think I was going to get used to it. But here I am and all that happened already and I just… I love you more than I could ever have planned._

_It’s a shame that I am a coward and you are blind._

Last days were insupportable, endless, for him, only being a little bearable for the constants jokes of his friends trying to make him laugh (as long as they weren’t about the _thing,_ specially taking in count how irritable Marco was that week). Not only because the pain had already limited to appear as a slightly but constant annoyance that didn’t make more than _being_ there, causing him to feel that he could fix it at that exact moment, but also because he had had a match and even while the rest had to make a pause to refresh and drink some water he was with the long sleeve under the t-shirt and nobody believed anything. Using gloves to reaffirm it would have been too excessive because he would die from the warmth (or something like that. It wasn’t _that_ excessive), and even when it all had been his exaggeration or paranoia fearing for people to _know,_ he felt all the journalists looking at him all the time.

He felt proud of himself every time they played, though, when he didn’t think about tattoos. He could feel himself grow, believe, strive, explode, exploit at every match, as well as he did in every single one of the trainings. He never stopped believing that he could be better, and he did as much as he could and more than that for that (and if, also, he had a good time with Auba in the middle of all that, well, he couldn’t complain. However, that thing was all different, very different. It always was, but it wasn’t a bad thing).

He felt _seriously_ bad one specific day. Generally, he tried to take that entire thing with humor because he knew that, if he didn’t, it could have consequences, and that if he took all too serious it would lead to give it so many importance in his life that he would get obsessed with stopping his arm from shouting at him at night that name that he was quickly starting to hate (if he wasn’t obsessed by that time). And he was making it. He was laughing of himself and all that stuff, but suddenly the question installed on his head and, at least that day, no one deflected his mind from that. _Why Mario’s name? Wouldn’t it have been better if he tattooed even a sign, a number, a date, anything except that? Why not getting tattooed something less obvious?_

That could’ve been perfectly the main question, doubt. But it wasn’t, and it wasn’t for two reasons. First: when he had tattooed (he didn’t even remember something about that situation) he had been very drunk, and the reason could’ve been anything. The worse in all that was that he had had been thinking about getting tattooed something else but, without place to doubt, it wasn’t that. The second and strongest reason, the one that made him think, was the other question.

Why I don’t want Mario to know I got his name tattooed? In clearest words: why I don’t want him to know that I’m in love with him? He couldn’t stand being quiet anymore, he couldn’t. _The answer is because I don’t want him to hate me. Because I never spoke with him about that and he could be a homophobic just like…_ was the weak answer on the mental discussion he was having with himself, but he didn’t believe that. He wouldn’t fall in love with a homophobic.

Wouldn’t he?

The next morning he woke up and he didn’t want to move from his bed. During the day the only thing he wanted to do was to go back to his bed and when the night appeared embracing all as always, he couldn’t sleep for at least two good hours. _I didn’t fall in love with a homophobic_ , he thought, but then… _he will reject me without doubt and all will become weird and we won’t be able to speak normally again. Not even André will get you out of that one._ And something like… _but Mario is Mario and I refuse to believe that he could do something like that._

In his mind images of Mario with the Bayern shirt appeared. Right, he got it. If Mario could’ve done something like that… And if he refused to believe it, why he didn’t tell him long ago? In the first days on Dortmund, going back to his city and starting to realize how good they would work together? Marco wasn’t someone who didn’t face people saying what he thought; it was just that Mario was too… he was too much. And Marco couldn’t.

When he finally was able to reconcile the sleep, he did it thinking about not to tell him. He had lived knowing it and he could end his life without telling something to him. He could be with other people, even if nothing compared to his hugs and the jokes that were only funny for him and the weird selfies he invented and the stupidities that made him smile and that he usually said and… all that things. He knew it would be hard to find those things again in someone who could be with him, but he didn’t care. If he could keep speaking with Mario, if Mario could speak to him normally, there was no problem.

On the dream he had he was telling Mario, and the other one hugged him saying that he had been waiting to that moment. When he woke up he wanted, he needed to tell him.

_I’ll do it someday_ , he sworn to himself. _Someday I’m not going to be afraid._ Meanwhile, he remembered himself that next day he had to go to change the tattoo that said _Mario_ to _Marco._

 

The day, finally, arrived. Marco went with the only person who didn’t choked him with annoying questions, didn’t make constant jokes or didn’t worry excessively about every minimal detail, the only person who didn’t bother him, who didn’t mention Mario anymore and let Marco speak about whatever he wanted, specially on the road. Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang. Auba. Pierre. The person who let him say all the things, bad and goods; what he was wanting of all that matter, by example that he knew how ugly and nonsense it looked like to get a tattoo with his own name (Auba had given him the idea of putting his birth date also and he, without knowing why and without doubting, was going to do it).

It wasn’t like he felt the same for the Gabonese than for Mario. Well, maybe he did, but his meetings with him were exclusively platonic and Pierre knew how the blonde felt about the German. And he didn’t say anything. He didn’t judge him or defended him before all else. He concentrated on the football, the celebrations, the shared laughs, the smiles. “Everyone has their bad stories. While I see you are okay, that it’s the important thing at least for me, you’re not going to have to confess all to me if you don’t want to”. And when Marco didn’t want to, he didn’t want to. They stayed silent or, better, played table tennis, or joked and ideated a new celebration. But it resulted that there was some times (most of them) where he wanted to “confess everything”. That attitude he had of letting him choose when to speak or no, made him want to tell the other everything. He wanted Pierre to understand like he always did. That’s why he got along with everyone so well: because he knew when he had to speak or no (clearly, we’re talking about “serious” or “important” stuff. In any other circumstance, he wouldn’t stop talking, as he normally did).

That day he woke up with the relieving certain that he was going to fix it, and therefore with an uncontainable good mood. He couldn’t avoid it, to be really honest. Him, who never denoted when he was too excited for those things, that day, was almost jumping on the walls for the energy he had (which was useful because the training that day faced directly the match against Bayern they would have a few days later). He counted the seconds to get out of there and when he finally did left the establishment he loved so much he went directly there, in his car, with his companion.

 

Finally, it didn’t hurt as much as he expected, or he was too happy that he didn’t realize of the pain. The change wasn’t that much, too, but after all it said “Marco” and not “Mario”, and that was the important. When he got out of there he felt like he finally was going to be able to _show_ his left arm without worrying about anything. He knew there was going to be critics (passing from an inspirational phrase to your name and your date of birth…) but he knew the entire story that there was behind and he didn’t care. For him, it was like the _tattoo that saved him from humiliation_ and that was it. It didn’t matter anymore.

The tattooist recognized him and that was his only problem, doubt. Even after he had to swear like eighty times that he wasn’t going to say nothing to anybody, it was necessary the intervention from Pierre to make him go away of the fucking building and stop making problems about it (with the indication of using the same ointment for a while, and not to forget it and to treat it like it’s a new tattoo). And that’s where he started to talk to distract him.

“Listen, I just got a theory” he started, while Marco animated him to speak with a “mhm” and passed a change on the car. “Bah, it’s not a theory, it’s an idea. In the left arm you’ve got this tattoo…” and, on a discrete way, he touched the tattoo he had next to the new, the other, the one of the phrase _the best adventure you can take is to live your dreams_ , because it was the arm he had closer and tried not to notice the other tensing to his side in an instinctive way, without waiting for it. His touch, he thought, it was like living again those little bites he had felt, but without pain, just a little tickle, not too much and with no doubt satisfactory. Pierre’s smile was between shy and amusing and Marco didn’t see it because he was looking forward and because the other one had retired his hand and had his own head turned away. He continued. “…and the other one, with your name. One is all poetic and inspiring and the other one… well, it’s your name. And it’s like…that’s how you are. An egocentric that is always two hours late to everything” he ignored the ‘me, egocentric? Seriously, me?’ and kept talking. “…that is always late for everything because he had been in front of the mirror trying to make his hair look better.”

“You are saying that because you don’t know how Mario was. Every time that he…” Marco interrupted himself and the smile that had formed on his lips while he listened to Pierre was suddenly gone. He didn’t want, evidently, to talk about Mario. He had caused too trouble by that time.

“Sh” the other said but he didn’t need to because the german was already _very_ quiet. “But, on the other side, you have that serious facet of when you play football or talk to somebody and you understand perfectly and you think on the other in a way that makes them think that they are loved and that you worry about them. That part is just as big as the other and it’s great to see you in any of these two.”

“Aw” Marco said, turning his head to look at him just for a second and resting his hand (the left hand, carefully) on his shoulder, without disregard the street he had in front of them. “Even if that doesn’t make a lot of sense and I don’t know if it’s totally true, aw. Thank you for saying that about me.

Pierre didn’t want to ignore completely the fact that Marco had to interrupt himself when he wanted to talk about Mario. He had realized, when Marco went to tell him that he had tattooed the younger’s name, that he cared about him more than what he had expected, it didn’t matter that the moment he had done it he had been drunk or that he was regretting about it. He had done it and Pierre, honestly, as his friend, was worrying. “You should tell Mario” he suddenly let that sentence fall, startling the other who didn’t know how to react. He kept driving until he answered when a couple of seconds had passed. With a stupid question, evidently, how he did every time he didn’t want to talk about something.

“Tell him what? That I got tattooed?”

“That you love him, that you are in love with him.” That was it. He wouldn’t doubt about what he meant. He had never spoken openly about that or expressed his worry, but he thought that moment was right to let him know.

“I’m fine. It’s not like my life is miserable if I don’t tell him or something like that. I am happy too.”

“I think he loves you. I know he loves you.” He was too sure of he was saying. He wasn’t the one who spoke with Mario every day, but he had listened Mario talking about Marco and had attested the endless conversations, the gestures Marco had, the times when Mario wanted to make him smile and, obviously, when he had success.

The blonde pressed the button that made the mechanism to get the raindrops off the windscreen. That day, cutting the sunny days and with hot temperature, had appeared with rain. It wasn’t like Marco was bothered about it, anyway (he was just thinking _why today, you could’ve given me a reason to use long sleeve before but it has to rain today? Thank you, eh_ ). He liked the rain, he had always liked it, but not the kind of rain that doesn’t let you sleep and provokes that the act of driving becomes something insupportable, annoying and even dangerous, he liked that soft, gentle, kind of rain, that refreshed you and that through the window you couldn’t see it. The drops that were small and almost shy, the sound on the roof, the one you could hear but that wasn’t annoying. That’s how he liked the rain, he enjoyed it. It wasn’t a problem for him to play football with that rain, to live with it. And its sound was better than the silence.

But, if there was something better than _that_ rain and the silence, it was Auba’s voice saying those words.

Then reality came. “Okay, but with an “I think” yours, even if it’s very value, I do nothing. I am risking a lot here, it’s not like it is with a girl; if he rejects me, or if he is _ashamed_ of me, or if he says something it in front of the press… I have no international career, for starting. I have everyone’s hate, but I only have that. And with Mario I’m never sure about anything, you know? It is _always_ unexplored terrain.” When he saw Pierre’s expression he added a lament, a comment that came directly from his worse fears; something he would’ve screamed desperately if it weren’t that dramatic. “Pierre, I don’t want him to hate me.”

 

In that room there wasn’t enough light. The letters couldn’t see totally and the picture would be horrible if he was thinking about taking it like that. In two fast moves that didn’t denote at all his nervousness (even if it was unjustified because nobody would realize what was written before) he turned on a light and opened a window, if it wasn’t enough. It was a lot better like that.

He took like five photos of his left arm, the one he had full of ink, until he found one that he liked (no, it didn’t serve to tell him they were all the same). He waited his good five minutes until he took it, unsure. He felt, even if it didn’t look like it, satisfied with what had ended up resulting and with how fast he had managed to resolve what may have ended up as something very scandalous because… well, _nobody_ getstattooed his best friend’s name when it’s only his best friend. Just that. But even if he was surer than ever that it was fine, he wanted someone to realize. He wanted Mario to realize, but he didn’t want to tell him.

He pressed “send” at the exact moment when Pierre opened the bathroom’s light and as soon as he entered mumbled “uh, why is there so much light in here?”. The german didn’t answer; he was too busy writing something on his phone. Every word he wrote seemed to cost and Auba got closer to him to see why he had that face. He just glanced at him when he finished writing and the smile he gave him said thank you and I’m sorry at the same time.

_Thank you for convincing me. I’m sorry that this is happening right now, right after we’ve been together and I’m sorry because, whatever the answer I receive is, we won’t do it again._

He looked down again and sent it.

 

**Sunny (online):**

“ _Hey look” 17:06 pm._

_“I’m looking” 17:06 pm._

_“[image]” 17:15 pm._  
_“That’s my arm!” 17:15 pm._  
_“Do you see the C on my name? Well, originally it was an I” 17:16 pm._  
_“Do you want to know why?” 17:20 pm_.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t even know what the relationship between Marco and Pierre is; I suppose I’m going to do a second part on how Pierre sees things or something. I don’t know.  
> I hope you liked it, I'm sorry if there's any mistake. :)


End file.
